Late Night Cries

Chapter One: Echoes of Rogo

The night in Rogo was unlike any other night in the world. It was a kind of silence that pressed against the skin — thick, unbroken, and waiting. The village slept in darkness, its narrow red-dust roads swallowed by shadows and the faint shimmer of dying moonlight. Wind whistled through cracked windows and over abandoned rooftops, carrying with it the dry scent of earth and rust.

At the edge of the village, where farmland gave way to thorny bush and an old transmission tower loomed like a skeleton, sat Radio Rogo 99.5 FM — the only surviving voice in a place that had long since stopped talking.

Inside, the air smelled of dust, old wires, and forgotten memories. The flickering bulb above the console buzzed like a trapped insect, its weak light painting Jamila Fayad’s brown face in pale yellow streaks. She sat before the dusty mixer, headphones crooked over her hijab, a cracked mug of coffee by her side.

It was 11:47 PM, and she was preparing for the start of Racy Nights — the midnight show her father had once hosted with smooth laughter and honeyed words. Jamila had grown up listening to his deep, assuring voice float through the house at midnight, lulling her to sleep. Now, years later, she carried on the legacy, though the magic had long since bled out of the airwaves.

Her father, Chief Fayad, had been gone three years. The day he died, the radio tower stopped transmitting for forty-eight hours, without explanation. The engineers never figured out why. When it came back on, the signal seemed weaker, as though something in it had been broken.

Jamila brushed a stray strand of hair from her face and adjusted the microphone.

“Good evening, Rogo,” she began softly, her voice slipping into the rhythm that had become second nature. “It’s another cold night, and I’m your host, Jamila Fayad. You’re tuned to Racy Nights, the show that keeps the lonely company. Tell me what you want to hear tonight. The lines are open.”

Her voice filled the small, dimly lit room, bouncing off the cracked walls, disappearing into static. She reached for her phone — an old, chipped Nokia — and refreshed her messages. There were a few song requests: Kizz Daniel’s ‘Lie’, Asa’s ‘The One That Never Comes’, a few shout-outs. She smiled faintly and began queuing them.

Outside, the wind howled like a restless spirit.

The equipment was barely holding together. The speakers hissed with background noise, one of the mics had a dead channel, and the mixer sparked occasionally like a dying firefly. She had grown used to its quirks — the faint hum in the wires, the ghostly echoes that sometimes looped back into her feed.

She leaned back and sipped her coffee. It tasted bitter.

By 12:01 AM, the night had fully swallowed Rogo. The moon hid behind a shroud of thin clouds, and even the crickets seemed to hush. Jamila was halfway through a caller’s request when her phone buzzed.

One new message.

She frowned, picked it up, and read.

Play ‘Late Night Cries’ for me – Tolu.

Her breath caught in her throat.

For a moment, she just stared at the screen, unblinking. The name sat there, glowing white against black, simple yet impossible.

Tolu.

It couldn’t be.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she placed the phone down. She knew that name too well — Tolu Danmusa, a regular caller from Kura, a young man who never missed an episode. He had a deep laugh and always requested love songs — mostly heartbreak ballads — and sometimes teased Jamila for never calling back when he texted.

But Tolu was dead.

She remembered the day the news broke. A rainy morning. Aisha had shown her a post from Kano Chronicle about a fatal accident along the expressway. His name was there. His mother had even called the show once, crying, to thank Jamila for keeping her son company on lonely nights.

So how could he be texting her now?

She stared again at the phone, waiting for a follow-up message that never came. The digital clock on the console blinked 12:04 AM. The station hummed with the usual static, but something in the air felt… heavier.

“Probably some i***t’s idea of a prank,” she muttered under her breath. Her voice sounded small in the empty room.

She deleted the message, exhaled, and returned to the playlist.

“Up next,” she said into the mic, forcing calm into her voice, “we’ve got Asa with ‘The One That Never Comes.’ For all my night owls out there, this one’s for you.”

The melody filled the station, slow and melancholic. Jamila leaned back again, but her mind was elsewhere — replaying every memory of Tolu, every time his laughter had filled the air through her headphones.

At 12:30, another message came.

This one was from a number she didn’t recognize either.

Play ‘Six Feet Away’ – for Chika.

She hesitated.

The name Chika was familiar — a chef who ran a small buka near the main road. She sometimes called into the show when business was slow, cheerful and teasing.

Jamila frowned, thumb hovering over the delete button. Something about the request made her stomach twist.

The title of the song — Six Feet Away — wasn’t one she normally played. It was an old underground track about death and longing, one her father had once banned from the station’s playlist, saying “some songs wake things that should stay asleep.”

A chill ran down her spine.

Still, curiosity got the better of her. She shrugged and queued it, telling herself it was just another request.

“This next one,” she said quietly into the mic, “goes out to Chika, from an unknown listener. It’s called ‘Six Feet Away.’ Rest easy, wherever you are.”

The haunting melody began — slow drumbeats and a male voice whispering beneath the lyrics, “Don’t forget me when I’m gone.”

Halfway through the song, the studio lights flickered violently. The speakers hissed, then crackled. Jamila yanked off her headphones. Through the static, she thought she heard… something.

A voice.

Faint, layered beneath the music.

A man’s whisper — “Jamila…”

Her heart jumped. She turned off the fader, stopping the song mid-line. Silence fell, thick and total.

Her breathing was loud in her ears.

“Probably interference,” she muttered, though her voice quivered. “Just… interference.”

She forced herself to finish the show, reading a few dedications, pretending everything was normal. But inside, something had shifted. She couldn’t stop replaying that whisper — soft, drawn out, familiar.

By 2 AM, the night had grown colder. She packed up her bag, switched off the equipment, and stepped outside.

The village was silent except for the moaning wind. The transmission tower loomed above her like a crooked giant, its steel ribs shivering under the cold. She wrapped her shawl tighter around herself and began the long walk home.

The gravel crunched under her shoes. The moonlight had returned, washing the narrow road in ghostly silver. As she neared the bend by the old well, she thought she saw a flicker of movement — a figure, standing just ahead.

She stopped.

“Hello?” she called softly.

The figure didn’t move.

Her breath quickened. It looked like someone in a long shirt, tall and lean, facing away from her.

But when she blinked, it was gone. The road was empty again.

Jamila hurried the rest of the way home, heart pounding against her ribs.